Firstly, ladies and gentlemen, I must apologise for the lateness of this update. Work and the like has been extremely hectic, and will probably remain so until the end of the week. After that, however, updates will resume as normal.
Secondly, I am once again in a hurry, and have not proofread this update properly, so my apologies also for any errors.
And now, to answer comments:
loki100- Exactly. With the Turks dying very quickly, I'm the only big power left in the area. I hope to be able to control large swathes of the Middle East in due course, and Constantinople too.
Stuyvesant- Maybe not as loveless as you think- Manoel is merely shy and cold, not emotionless. Things are not as bad as they seem...
It could sit badly with others, but other than the Byzantines there aren't any others to speak of.
Lightening shattered the sky. Among the Basque mountains, the world was rocked back and forth.
The peaks of the Pyrenees were lit up by the fire of heaven, above the cities and fields below, above the hateful men and women who lurked in Spanish valleys.
Upon the mountain of the Demons, a little wooden shack jutted out, feared by all but known by few. Within it were some of the deadliest people in the world, who had been trained for half their lives to kill, and do it well.
Georgians. A country hated by many and known to few. These assassins were from that mountain realm, and loved their country and king dearly.
One of them had just left the cabin- perhaps not the most intelligent idea in the middle of a storm. But this man had always been lucky. He'd been born in a blasted waste of the north, the fiery little Icelandic Republic.
He was one of the oldest of the assassins- he'd been there from the beginning. He'd trained many, and had killed many.
No assassin left the peak. They were either killed or would die there. He enforced this rule with an iron law, catching anyone who could not take it.
Except there was one who had got past him.
A man from the Far East, some dreamy-eyed Asiatic with idealistic dreams of mankind. Foolery. Man was evil, and simply made strange constructs to create some semblance of morality.
The assassins were isolated from all. They received their orders from written messages, and tried to see as little of the outside world as possible.
But this assassin had learnt something on their last trip. That Asian bastard was still alive- more than that, he was Spymaster in his beloved kingdom.
The assassins had a new job- one not sanctioned by the king, but one that would be carried out regardless.
The Whisperer would be buried under ten foot of snow and stone. He would see to it personally. Nobody got past him and lived.
Secondly, I am once again in a hurry, and have not proofread this update properly, so my apologies also for any errors.
And now, to answer comments:
loki100- Exactly. With the Turks dying very quickly, I'm the only big power left in the area. I hope to be able to control large swathes of the Middle East in due course, and Constantinople too.
Stuyvesant- Maybe not as loveless as you think- Manoel is merely shy and cold, not emotionless. Things are not as bad as they seem...
It could sit badly with others, but other than the Byzantines there aren't any others to speak of.
PART ONE:
The Lairs of Demons.
Chapter Four.
The Lairs of Demons.
Chapter Four.
Lightening shattered the sky. Among the Basque mountains, the world was rocked back and forth.
The peaks of the Pyrenees were lit up by the fire of heaven, above the cities and fields below, above the hateful men and women who lurked in Spanish valleys.
Upon the mountain of the Demons, a little wooden shack jutted out, feared by all but known by few. Within it were some of the deadliest people in the world, who had been trained for half their lives to kill, and do it well.
Georgians. A country hated by many and known to few. These assassins were from that mountain realm, and loved their country and king dearly.
One of them had just left the cabin- perhaps not the most intelligent idea in the middle of a storm. But this man had always been lucky. He'd been born in a blasted waste of the north, the fiery little Icelandic Republic.
He was one of the oldest of the assassins- he'd been there from the beginning. He'd trained many, and had killed many.
No assassin left the peak. They were either killed or would die there. He enforced this rule with an iron law, catching anyone who could not take it.
Except there was one who had got past him.
A man from the Far East, some dreamy-eyed Asiatic with idealistic dreams of mankind. Foolery. Man was evil, and simply made strange constructs to create some semblance of morality.
The assassins were isolated from all. They received their orders from written messages, and tried to see as little of the outside world as possible.
But this assassin had learnt something on their last trip. That Asian bastard was still alive- more than that, he was Spymaster in his beloved kingdom.
The assassins had a new job- one not sanctioned by the king, but one that would be carried out regardless.
The Whisperer would be buried under ten foot of snow and stone. He would see to it personally. Nobody got past him and lived.